


I shouldn't have let you go

by Bowiegirl99



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Major Character Injury, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:24:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bowiegirl99/pseuds/Bowiegirl99
Summary: John goes off to war, despite Sherlock's hesitance. He knows John just wants to be a good countryman, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.When he gets word that John's outfit has been attacked, and no one can find information about the most important person in Sherlock's life, Sherlock.....well......Let's just say he doesn't handle it well





	1. Chapter 1

As he had done every night since John went away, Sherlock turned the telly on to the news. He didn't particularly want to watch it, or even listen to it for that matter, but since he couldn't always talk to John and hear that he was okay, he had to settle for the evening news. He had trained his brain over the last few months to listen for particular key words from the announcers' voice: "Afghanistan" "Fusiliers" and "British Armed Forces." Any mention of those words had Sherlock's brain running into overdrive and screamed at him to focus on what the man was saying. It always ended up being something dull, like they had moved so many kilometers, or this is what it was like in the day of a soldier, but it took a few moments for the heart pounding fear to leave Sherlock.

He had gotten so used to someone sleeping beside him, and when John went to serve his country, Sherlock found it incredibly difficult to sleep. He would wake up at odd hours, reaching out for the shorter man, trying to catch his scent or feel the softness of his hair. He caught a few naps here and there, somehow fitting his long and lanky form into John's chair, hugging the Union Jack pillow and wishing with all of his might that it was John. Sweet, caring, John. His blue eyes would look up at him, reflecting all of the love that the consulting detective found difficult to believe that anyone could feel for him, even after all of their time together. Even when John got upset that Sherlock went for days without eating or sleeping, and when he threw a fuss and forced him to at least sit down for a few moments, Sherlock felt the fierce love and devotion that John had for him, wishing that he knew of a way to show John how much he was loved in return. Eating and sleeping didn't really do the trick, and most of the time Sherlock over thought things and ended up making a mess of the situation. He shuddered at the thought of the Valentine's Day fiasco.

Sherlock sighed and picked up the remote. As he did, his mobile rang from his desk. Sherlock was across the room in an instant, snatching up the phone. He saw the name and instantly his heart started racing, butterflies flitting about in his stomach. He answered the call.

"John," he breathed with a smile.

Thousands of miles away, John leaned against the wall and smiled, closing his eyes and seeing the familiar picture of Sherlock come into focus. "Hello, love."

"You are exactly three days, six hours, and forty minutes late calling me. What happened? Are you alright?" Sherlock silently cursed himself. He had wanted to start out with something lovey dovey, or heaven forbid, sexy, but hearing John's voice, after their usual appointment on the phone had been missed, reminded him that they were thousands of miles apart. Not hearing from John was.....torture. It made Sherlock nervous when he went too long without talking to John. His mind palace had a secret, heavily locked door that was full of all the scenarios of what could happen to John in Afghanistan. Bombings, terrorist attacks, surprise ambushes, or even being a victim of friendly fire. He heard John chuckle and was brought back to the conversation at hand.

"I missed you too, love. It's wonderful to hear your voice." John had smiled when he heard Sherlock ask him what had taken so long. They had intel that said there was going to be an attack soon, so the higher ups had ordered them to move it along. They had taken everything apart and moved as ordered, and it had taken them a little while to get everything situated. He had worried constantly that Sherlock was freaking out, scared, and it made John upset. He didn't want to be so far away, but he felt it was his duty. He thought about Sherlock all the time, and had regretted missing their phone call. "Don't worry, Sherlock. We got some info that we were going to need to relocate for better helicopter access and it just took us a little longer than usual to get situated." He hated lying to Sherlock, but didn't want him to worry any more than he already was. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Perfectly fine. How are you holding up?"

Sherlock went back to John's chair and sat down. He grabbed the pillow and hugged it to his chest. "Very tolerable, only...."

John perked up. "Only what?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "I have this ache. These two aches, actually."

"Sherlock, you need to get this stuff checked out. I won't be home for a few months and I told you that you need to get examined when I am not there and-"

"John!"

John paused. "Where is the pain, Sherlock?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "The first, and the most insistent, is in my loins."

John inhaled sharply and turned into the corner, making sure no one could see him should they happen to walk into the small room.

"You see, John," Sherlock continued, "I had gotten used to being shagged on a regular basis. It was almost like you were training me. When I heard you come home, I would instantly become hard and the throbbing between my legs was intolerable. It was the same when I thought about you, at all hours of the day and night. My mind would work up these wonderful fantasies about you and different positions, toys and even having sex in public places where we could get caught with your cock inside me. I miss you filling me up, I miss your powerful thrusts and the wickedly naughty things you would whisper in my ear as you made me moan and cry your name out in spine tingling ecstasy. That's one place where the pain is."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John moaned, closing his eyes. Listening to that had made John unbearably hard. He could picture it perfectly, having sex with Sherlock in an incredibly public place that added the very real possibility of getting caught. Making love with Sherlock in their shared bed, listening to his lover moan and groan his name as he pleasured him for hours on end. He had imagined all sorts of new positions he wanted to try with Sherlock when he got home and knowing Sherlock was thinking the same things was enough to drive him wild. 

"The second, and most consistent source of pain, is in my heart."

"Sherlock, you need to see a doctor," John insisted, "you could be having-"

Sherlock interrupted once more, knowing that he needed to state his feelings before he lost the courage to do so. "You misunderstand, John. It isn't a physical pain I feel, but a psychological one. My heart is functioning perfectly, but it misses you terribly. It misses you in the night when I can't sleep, and cries out when I reach for you and you aren't there. It breaks over and over again when I return to the flat, knowing you won't be there, but still half hoping you will be, putting the kettle on, flashing me a smile, pulling me into your arms just for the sake of holding me close. It sends pain all over my body and I can't help but cry at the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that creeps up on me. Your things that are lying around the flat even bring tears to my eyes. They lie about, untouched, practically screaming at me that you are not here, and the feeling is unbearable. My heart is missing a piece of itself and it knows it won't be happy again until you, the missing piece, are home with me, safe and sound. That is the pain my heart feels, John. I miss you."

John sniffed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He put a hand over his mouth, refusing to start sobbing. In all of their years together, Sherlock had never said anything that beautiful to him. It was...overwhelmingly sweet. He felt his heart swell with love for his consulting detective. 

"John? Are you there?"

John sniffed again and took a shaky breath. "Yes, I'm here. Sherlock....that was..."

Sherlock held his breath.

"...beautiful." John finished. "That was the most beautiful speech I have ever heard you say to me. I wish I had the capacity to say something so beautiful to you, but I can't. I'm speechless. You leave me speechless."

Sherlock smiled, his heart swelling with love. 

John wiped his eyes. "All I can say is that I feel that same way. I miss you. I miss hearing your voice everyday, or you playing the violin. I miss holding you in the night, and waking up to you every morning. I miss the way you call everyone an idiot, believe it or not. I just plain miss you. You're the missing piece of my heart."

Sherlock wiped a tear that fell from his eye. He heard another voice over the phone speaker, probably another officer. He couldn't quite make out what John said, but his instincts told him that it was time to say goodbye. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here, John."

"It's time for our cleaning duties, so I have to go. Bloody awful timing, too. I hate to get off the phone after hearing that from you."

"As do I, John, but I know that the cleaning needs to happen."

John smiled. He may have acted like a bratty child when John told him his military plans, but he knew that deep down, Sherlock supported him. "I'll call you soon, love. I'm making plans for a little bit of phone sex on our next scheduled phone call. You better be prepared."

Hearing John go from sweet to commanding never failed to make Sherlock hard. He enjoyed it immensely when John made the transformation. Even though his throbbing erection told him to obey him and give an affirmative answer, his brain still wanted to tease him a bit. "We'll see, Captain Watson. I might be preoccupied."

John inhaled and bit his lip. He knew Sherlock liked being commanded as much as John liked commanding, but hearing Sherlock disobey like that drove him crazy. He adjusted himself on the wall, trying in vain to ignore the erection straining against the zipper of his pants. "God, you have no idea what you do to me. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. More than any words in any language could express."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the warmth he felt at John's words wash over him. "And I love you, John Watson. More than anything in this, or any, world."

They both got off the phone that evening, huge smiles adorning their faces as they thought about each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock paced the flat. He was right at the end of a case, and he was edgy. He had kept up hope that Lestrade would have figured out who the murderer was before Sherlock had to step in. It was transparent who had done it, and he was frustrated that no one was keeping up with him. The one man who kept him grounded, and who also kept him from lashing out at everyone for their stupid comments and questions, was thousands of miles away. 

God, he wanted a cigarette. He refrained, as he had made a promise to John that he wouldn't smoke, but the old itch of wanting one in stressful times was crawling on his skin. 

He had gotten off the phone with John a little over a week ago, painfully aroused and full of desire. He had wanted some release, but without John there to shag him until he couldn't walk straight, he had to settle with his hand. It wasn't the same as John's firm hand, stroking him until his orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks, but it was all he had until John came home. Perhaps that was why he was so edgy: he needed a proper orgasm. 

Lestrade had left, frustrated that Sherlock had belittled him again, but wasn't surprised. Since John had left, Sherlock had gotten a little worse. He was snappy, borderline bitchy, and he was almost desperate for a case. He constantly texted the DI, asking if there was anything new, anything old that he could maybe take a look through to see if there was anything different that jumped out at him. Lestrade had been annoyed, until he realized why Sherlock was acting this way. He was lonely. John was gone, and he was still having a hard time trying to function without him. He had been as accommodating as he could, but the criminals weren't just up to par. Lestrade shoved his hands in his coat pocket as he got closer to his car. Only a few more months and John would be home. Then everything would be okay. Lestrade started the car then sped away, back to New Scotland Yard with the new information that Sherlock had given him. 

Sherlock watched Lestrade leave with a scowl. He hated what he had become since John had left, but couldn't bring himself to change his ways. He wanted everything to return to normal. He flopped down in John's chair, and let out a long sigh. He was about to announce that he was bored, but without John there to pick a small fight with him about the things he could do instead of lounging around the flat all day, he just sighed again.

His mobile rang, and pulling it out of his pocket, smiled as he saw John's name on the caller ID. "Hello, John."

"How'd I do this time?" 

Sherlock grinned and picked up the pillow. "Today it was only twenty minutes late. You're getting better."

"Thank you. Any new cases?" John slid along the wall of the small equipment room and pressed his back against it as he listened to Sherlock talk. He was exhausted. Cleaning duty had doubled since a few of the other men had come down with a serious case of pneumonia. Not to mention the extra patrol duty and setting up the new equipment. When he heard Sherlock's voice, though, his exhaustion had just melted away. 

"So, it was up to me to determine how long the milk had been left on the counter, and once I had, it led me to the murderer. But enough about me, John. I want to hear about you." The edginess he was feeling melted away as John started talking about what they had been up to for the past week. Moving equipment, doing patrols. Dull. But, he liked hearing John talk. His voice, while not as low as his own, was soothing. Sherlock gripped the pillow as John's voice washed over him.

"So, nothing new I'm afraid," John continued, "just the same old routine. How did Lestrade take your news about the milk?"

Sherlock scoffed. "If he wasn't such an idiot, he would have figured it out for himself. You actually just missed him. He was here for a few moments."

John sighed. "Sherlock, please tell me that you were at least polite to him? I'm not there to play safety guard you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, I am painfully aware of the fact that you are not here. And I don't see the reason why I should have to play nice because of that. Lestrade is an idiot, and he always has been, and I haven't treated him any differently since you have been away."

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock to stop acting like an idiot, then thought of a new plan. With a small grin on his face, he moved to the door and braced his back against it, making sure that no one would be able to get in. "Sherlock."

Sherlock was about to offer a rebuttal, but when John only said his name, he was flabbergasted. "Yes?" He offered weakly. 

"Have you been a naughty boy?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply. John had promised phone sex the last time they had spoken, and it sounded like he was about to deliver. He cock hardened slightly. He willed his body to take it slow so he could savor how John was planning on taking him there. "Perhaps."

John inhaled. Oh, he did love it when Sherlock resisted him. "I'll have you know, Mr. Holmes, that when you and I got off the phone last week, I was sporting a throbbing erection. You have no idea what you did to me last week, and I only had my hand to help release myself. Since then, I have been testy because I haven't been able to have a proper shag. You have been an incredibly naughty boy, making me hard when you can't do a goddamn thing about it. You'll need to be punished. Do everything I say, understand?"

Sherlock bit his lip in anticipation. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep his hard on at bay. When Captain Watson came out, it was hard to keep from coming right then and there. He closed his eyes and bit back a moan. "Yes," he whispered. 

"Yes, what?"

Sherlock couldn't stop the soft moan. "Yes, Captain." 

John moaned. "Pull yourself out, Sherlock." John pulled his own zipper down and freed himself. He gripped his steel hard cock, almost trying to tame it. He had fantasized about this for weeks, and he was damned if he was going to wait any longer. 

Sherlock shoved his hand down his pajama bottoms and pulled his cock out. It was now fully erect and throbbing. He needed release, and he needed to hear John's voice as he came. But even he wouldn't dare cross Captain Watson.

"Are you out, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Is it throbbing?"

Sherlock shuddered. "Yes, Captain. I wish you were here so you could be inside me, thrusting deep until you hit that sweet spot that makes me scream."

"Easy, Sherlock. I'm about ready to burst, and I want to make this last a little longer. I want you to put the phone on speaker. This is the week Mrs. Hudson is away, right?" 

"Yes."

"Good, and it's 'Yes Captain.' Now, put the phone down. I want to grab your nipples. Do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock set the phone down on the side table, like John asked, and took his nipples in his hands. He tweaked them, gasping at how sensitive they had become. The need to be shagged, no, fucked, slammed into him and he thrust his hips into the air. He let out a small moan as continued to roll his nipples between his fingers. 

John heard Sherlock moaning as he pinched his nipples. The sound made his hips thrust, his cock sliding up and down in his hand. He desperately wanted to be there, sucking Sherlock's cock as he made those delicious little moans. John moaned. "How does that feel Sherlock? Tell me how that feels."

Sherlock panted, his cock searching for any sort of friction as his hips thrust wildly. "It-ah, God-it feels good. Really good." 

John threw his head back against the wall. He was really starting to regret ever starting this. He wanted to be in their flat, fucking Sherlock until he couldn't walk. He wanted to taste Sherlock's cock in his mouth, taking him so deep that it hit the back of his throat. He wanted so badly to feel Sherlock buck and writhe against him as he came. He just had to make do with his hand. "Keep one nipple in your hand and take your cock in the other. I'm so close, and I need you to come with me. Now, Sherlock."

Sherlock quickly obliged. He lightly gripped his cock, gasping as the heat rushed into him. "Ready, Captain."

"Stroke yourself, Sherlock. Imagine that it's my hand stroking you, only I have a firmer touch. You need to grip yourself tighter, stroke a little harder. How tight is your hand?"

Sherlock tightened his grip and shouted. He threw his head back on John's chair and screwed his eyes shut. He was so close. "It's so tight, sir. So tight." He continued to stroke, running his thumb over the opening of his cock, using the pre-come as a lubricant. Every time his thumb ran over the slit, he pinched his nipple, and the pleasure was overwhelming. 

Hearing Sherlock shout like that, John nearly came. His face flushed and he inhaled sharply. His cock was so hard, and so hot. His head was thrown back against the door, hips thrusting as he listened to Sherlock jerk of in his ear. "How close are you, Sherlock?"

"Oh, God, John, I am so close. I'm right there."

"So am I. I want you to squeeze your cock, Sherlock. Grip it hard and move your hand faster."

Sherlock increased his speed and moaned. "Oh, John. John, John, John-"

John sped up too. "Sherlock, fuck, Sherlock, Sherlock. NOW!" The orgasm slammed into John like a truck. He went rigid as the pleasure swamped through him. He bit his lip, wishing more than anything that he could scream with his orgasm, but instead allowing a small moan to slip out. 

"Yes!" Sherlock made an inhuman noise as he came. His hand kept moving like a machine, increasing his pleasure as he came into his hand and onto the floor. He heard John come, just the slight moan he allowed himself. Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath before he spoke. "John?"

John panted, slightly embarrassed at the amount of fluid that was on the floor in front of him, but hearing Sherlock as he had come was satisfying. While he regretted not being there in person to have sex with Sherlock, he was glad that they at least got to do something. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Are you alright?"

John smiled. "Of course. That was more satisfying than the jerk off session I gave myself last week. How are you?"

Sherlock grinned. "Well, I think I may have dirtied your chair, and caused a rather embarrassing stain on the floor, but otherwise, fine." 

John wiped the sweat of his forehead, deciding that he needed to shower. "I look forward to doing this again, though."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. "I don't."

John popped open his eyes, staring into the darkness. "Why? Was it too much?"

"No, John. It wasn't enough. I don't want to have sex over the phone with you. I want you here, in our bed, making love with me."

John's heart broke, but sweetly. "Sherlock. I wish I could be there. Soon, though."

"Yes, John, but not soon enough." 

"There he is. There's the Sherlock that I remember. Petulant, but correct. God, I love you."

As it always did when John said those words, Sherlock's heart and stomach did a somersault. "I love you too, John."


	3. Chapter 3

The weeks had dragged on, and with their phone conversations becoming more and more sporadic, the weeks had seemed longer. John and Sherlock hadn't been able to talk on the phone for a while, and even his bones ached from missing his detective. He had heard the pout and worry in Sherlock's voice when John had mentioned that their phone calls would have to wait for a while. He knew Sherlock worried, and bloody hell, sometimes John worried about himself too. But he did his best to reassure Sherlock that all would be back to its usual self before too long. Sherlock didn't like it, but he had accepted it.

John was getting used to the extra duties that had befallen him since some of the men had caught pneumonia. He liked having things to do, he liked being useful. But more importantly, having a lot to do meant he wasn't so distracted by how much he was missing Sherlock. After their rather steamy conversation, John's need for Sherlock had been growing everyday. He found himself reaching for him in the middle of the night, and his heart ached every time he didn't grasp Sherlock. Whenever his CO was droning on and on, he heard Sherlock's voice in his head. "Dull" "boring" "not worth my time." His CO had only caught him smiling once, and had subjected John to extra PT for laughing at his efficiency campaign. John still heard Sherlock in his head, but had become an expert at keeping his face statue like. 

He had signed up for time on the computer with the webcam so he and Sherlock could have a video conversation. That thought had kept him going, even though he had pulled patrol duty today. He was ridiculously excited, like he was a school boy again. He couldn't wait to see Sherlock's face, with his ridiculous cheekbones and that cupid's bow mouth. He was especially excited about seeing his bright, intelligent, seemingly all seeing eyes. 

It was while he was out on that patrol, however, that the shit had officially met the fan. 

He had heard the rush of air, but didn't move quick enough for the bullet. It had hit him in the shoulder, and the resulting pain made John cry out. His shoulder was burning, the flesh torn and jagged. His cry alerted his fellow soldiers, but before they could get to him to help, the building to their left had exploded, and everything was thrown into chaos. 

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Sherlock was not one for primping excessively, but as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, making sure that everything was combed or brushed thoroughly, he found that he didn't mind going that extra mile. Especially if that extra mile was for John. He glanced down at his shirt, the deep purple one that accented his lean muscles (and was John's favorite shirt on him) to make sure that there weren't any toothpaste stains on it. His black trousers were pressed, and doing a triple then quadruple check, everything was finally ready. As he walked towards the computer to get signed on for their chat, Sherlock felt excited. After weeks of barely talking, he was finally going to get to see John's face. His sandy blond hair, his deep blue eyes that could tell what Sherlock was thinking or feeling without the detective having to say anything. His smile...Sherlock sighed. He couldn't wait. 

But, he had to. John had to be the one to initiate the call, using a special service that military personnel had to use. He supposed it was so they couldn't reveal any secrets and so the government could spy on them. He needed to ask Mycroft to give John a special privelege, so they could video chat, uninterrupted....unsupervised...so they could....Sherlock shook his head. Focus! He sat in the chair, laptop across his knees, signed on, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And as the hours stretched on, and still nothing from John, Sherlock's anxiety went through the roof. Something was wrong. John wouldn't forget their "date." Out of the two of them, Sherlock was the more likely to forget. Sherlock practically threw his laptop onto the couch, got up and paced. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling and tugging his curls. His heart rate was accelerating at an alarming rate, even for him. He paced by a lamp. and in a sudden flux in his frustration level, he knocked it onto the floor. 

He stared at the shards, feeling the numbness creeping up on him. He bit his lip and picked up the television remote. He slapped it against his palm before he switched it on. He repeatedly chanted to himself "please be okay" over and over as he looked for the channel he needed. When he found it, the bottom banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen had his vision tunneling and his heart stopping. Breaking News From Afghanistan.....

The remote slipped from his grasp as the reporter came onto the screen.

"Bad news out of Afghanistan this evening as we have learned that the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers have come under heavy fire. We don't know much as of now, but we do know that there was a series of Semtex explosions. Other units in the area are unavailable to reach the Fusiliers, and all communications have been lost. The British Government are in the process of trying to reestablish a connection as we speak. Officials are asking that any family members of these soldiers please hold all calls and instead report to..." Sherlock didn't finish the broadcast as he had fallen to his knees, hearing a loud buzzing in his ears. His blood had run cold, the numbness now completely overtaking him. His vision blacked out as he sank further onto the floor. 

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Mycroft continued to stare at the screen as the assistant's voice buzzed in his ear. "I don't care what you have to interrupt, but you are going to interrupt it and get me some goddamned answers. Now!" Mycroft ground his teeth as he heard the line being transferred from place to place, his frustration growing with every breath he took. Finally, he heard the line pick up.

"This had better be important, Mycroft. What is it?"

"The attack in Afghanistan. What's happening?"

He heard a snort. "With all of your inside men, you don't know what's happening? Give me a break. Mycroft."

"I warn you, I'm in no mood for games. What happened?"

"Mycroft...I don't know."

Mycroft clenched his hand on the phone. "Not good enough. You know."

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Mycroft, we don't know much. All we know is that there was a patrol sent out around their perimeter, and there was an explosion. We lost contact a few minutes later after a second explosion occurred. We're trying to reach them, or any squad around them to find out what's going on. The keyword there is 'trying.' I'm afraid I can't give you more than that because that is all we know at the moment. What's the big concern?"

"Someone very important to my family is part of that regiment. I just wanted some information to pass along." He rubbed a hand through his immaculately combed hair and sighed. He had already asked Anthea that he needed a car to take him to Sherlock. Mummy had always stressed the importance of family in a crisis and he also felt some strange pull to go to him. "Thank you, Phil." He disconnected the call, not wanting to hear the fake well wishing or false sympathy. He didn't have time for either. He grabbed his umbrella and made for the door.  
*~~~~~~~~~~*  
Mycroft wasn't overly surprised to see Mrs. Hudson hovering at the bottom of the staircase leading to 221B, but it did when he saw the fear and sadness in her eyes. 

"Is it true? What they're saying on the telly?" 

Mycroft adjusted his lapels. "Unfortunately, yes. You seem frightened." He said it as fact, as she was used to people coming straight to the point with her. 

"Yes, well, he," she gestured upstairs, "there's been an awful lot of racket coming from there. He was screaming for a while. From what I heard, I didn't think it would be wise to go in there. The whole street heard him. Why, Mrs. Turner next door called and said that she-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft interrupted, "I'll of course pay for any damages done to the flat. I'd best go check on my brother." He left her at the bottom of the staircase, anxiety building in his abdomen with every step. He reached the top and placed a hesitant hand on the handle. Taking a deep breath, he turned it and pushed the door open. 

The breath he had just taken in was let out in a gasp. The room was a complete disaster. Papers strewn all over the floor, broken glass everywhere. The furniture, save for John's usual chair, was upended and the stuffing ripped out of the cushions. The television was knocked over, the screen cracked, and the back looking as though Sherlock had stomped on it. The knife that had been used to hold important papers to the mantel was sitting in Sherlock's tight grasp. He sat on the floor, in front of John's chair, eyes glazed and puffy as he stared vacantly at it. Sherlock Holmes, the man who thought of his brain as a hard drive, and his body as just transport and nothing more, had been crying. Mycroft moved to slowly kneel in front of Sherlock, keeping the knife always in view. 

He moved to try and catch Sherlock's attention. "Sherlock?"

No response. Not even a twitch or flinch.

Mycroft cleared his throat and raised his voice a little. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at whomever was talking to him. It wasn't John, because John was.....Sherlock met his brother's eyes, and felt the sting of new tears. "Mycroft....." The one word, his name, was whispered, but full of such anguish and despair, such sadness, that Mycroft felt the tugging in his heart. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock went ramrod straight, but after a moment, sagged against Mycroft and let the tears flow. He sobbed hysterically into the shoulder of his brother, dropping the knife with a clatter to the floor and gripping his shoulders. 

His heart had been broken in half. His other half was missing, possibly wounded, possibly dead, and all Sherlock could do was cry and scream into the expensive suit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone. But this went through 3 drafts that didn't feel right. I know it's short, but the next one will be a doozy. Enjoy :)

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the table, waiting while his phone call was yet again bounced around from person to person. Phil was almost as hard to reach as Mycroft himself was. His teeth ground together as his assistant answered the phone. When Mycroft told her his name, she sputtered and he heard her rush around, trying to locate Phil. He rubbed his eyes as he waited.  
"This had better be important, Mycroft. We're still trying to find out more about what happened."  
"That isn't good enough, Phil. I need answers. I need more than that. I need to know where the soldiers are. I know you know something."  
Phil sighed. "Mycroft, I have nothing. It's only been two days. We're still trying to reestablish connections. You have got to give me more time."  
"I don't have that right now. I need to know what happened to a soldier. When will you know for sure?"  
Phil sighed again. "We have a unit that is only a few kilometers away and the firing has decreased exceptionally. If everything goes well, and the firing stops, we should have a unit there soon. I will let you know as soon as we make contact, Mycroft, you have my word." The line went dead and Mycroft set the phone down. He cursed under his breath and ran a hand lightly over his meticulously combed hair. This wasn't good.  
He picked up his personal phone and made another call.  
"Mr. Holmes?"  
"Hello, Detective Inspector. How is he?"  
He heard the DI sigh. "Not good. Can't get him to do a damn thing. Hasn't said a word, except to snap at us when we try to clean up. Any word on John?"  
"I'm afraid not. I'm trying, but no one seems to have any information."  
"It's been two bloody days. Surely someone knows something?"  
"You think I haven't exhausted all possible leads, Lestrade? That I am just sitting here on my arse eating cake all day?" Mycroft snapped the words out with more venom than he anticipated. He took a steadying breath. "Apologies."  
"I know you didn't mean it. I would be just as frustrated if I were you. It's just.....I know what John meant to Sherlock. John was good for him. I just don't want to see Sherlock go down that road again."  
Mycroft's stomach did a flip as he recalled Sherlock's days of drug use. "Neither do I. I will continue my search for John, if you will please try and keep an eye on Sherlock? Make sure he doesn't do anything....rash?"  
"I will."  
*~~~~~~~~~~*  
Sherlock snapped at anyone who tried to clean the shattered remains of the telly, who tried to pick up the stuffing from the sofa cushions off of the floor, or who tried to pick up the letter opener.  
Mrs. Hudson fed him.  
He didn't know what it was. Tasteless, odorless.  
Lestrade talked to him.  
It was all a murmur, wordless and unintelligible.  
Sherlock focused on nothing. Did nothing. Went nowhere. He simply lay on the floor, staring at John's chair, snarling at anyone who got too close to it. He stared at the ceiling that wavered as his eyes watered.  
He watched as the color drained out of his world. He felt the warmth leave his body, leaving nothing but a cold, empty shell. That's all he was. A shell.  
No laughter, no love, no feeling at all.  
Not without his John.  
John. John. John.  
Images of John floated through his mind. John smiling, John laughing. John's eyes bright with excitement and his breath coming out in huffs as they chased a criminal through the streets of London. John moaning and groaning as Sherlock buried his cock deep inside John's arse. John coming. John in his arms as they wrapped around each other in the post-orgasmic fog.  
He grabbed the Union Jack pillow and hugged it tight to his chest, heart clenching and tears streaming down his face.  
What the fuck was he supposed to do without John?


	5. Chapter 5

A week went by and still, no one had heard anything about John. Mycroft was getting desperate. Despite his reputation as the "Iceman," Mycroft was worried and visibly so. It was starting to unnerve everyone around him. He had set up round the clock surveillance on Sherlock, and made sure someone always had eyes, to make sure that he didn't do anything drastic. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson gave constant attention to the depressed detective, but he still continued to lose weight, and lose interest in everything: the work, the experiments, his life. He hadn't said more than a handful of words or eaten more than a few mouthfuls of food in over a week. Mycroft was buzzing with nervous energy. He knew that Sherlock had lost his will, and was soon going to lose everything unless he found John.  
He started chewing on his thumbnail when his work phone rang. He picked it up. "What?"

"We have contact again." Phil.

"Patch me through."

*~~~~~~~~~~*

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

It was the phone, but Sherlock ignored it. He was curled on the floor, in front John's chair. He held an old shirt of John's to his nose, trying desperately to find more of John's scent. He felt the sting in his eyes, but knew no tears would fall. His heart clenched.

_Buzz._

_Buzz_.

_Buzz._

He snarled at the phone and raised himself up on his knees. He pushed the hair out of his eyes and glanced at the screen. Mycroft. He scoffed halfheartedly and moved to get up.

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

He picked up the phone and threw it across the room, hearing it clatter to the floor. He crawled into John's chair, wrapping his dressing gown closer around his thinner frame and curled in on himself on the chair. Through the open door, the one that Mycroft had had removed due to his concern of a relapse, he heard Mrs. Hudson's phone ring downstairs. He rolled his eyes and burrowed deeper into the chair. He heard a slamming door, feet pound up the stairs, and winded breathing.

"Oh, Sherlock! Sherlock, your-your brother, he-he"

"Mrs. Hudson! I don't want to hear about my brother. Whatever he and his fat arse want, I don't care."

"Oh, dear. It-it's about John."

Sherlock's stomach dropped to his knees as his head shot up. He took in her face, the look in her eyes. Shock, fear, a small glimmer of hope through the tears in them. He swallowed.

"John?" His voice was small, tight. He could feel the hope swim through his veins, trying to burst out.

Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes, tears falling over. "They found him. They found John."

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Sherlock, hastily dressed, eyes wild and hair no less so, burst into Mycroft's office. Mycroft, expecting him, stood and tried to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Where is he? Where's John? She said you found him, so where is he? Mycroft, where is John?"

"Sherlock please, take a breath."

"Not until I see John. Where is he? Is he alright? Mycroft, tell me where John is!"

Mycroft reached out and grasped his arm. "Sherlock, please breath. John is, well..." He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, John is very injured. He was shot in the shoulder. He's still touch and go." He didn't want to tell Sherlock everything, but he also felt that he had a right to know.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath left him in a rush. Shot? Touch and go? Sherlock felt dizzy. His John, his everything, shot? He felt Mycroft push him into a chair and ask a faceless person for some water. Sherlock took a deep breath as the water was pushed into his hands.

"Will he-will he be okay? John?"

Mycroft sighed. "It's difficult to say, Sherlock. The doctors-"

"I want to see him. Get me there."

Mycroft snapped his head up at the steely resolution in Sherlock's voice. "Sherlock, I can't get you there."

"Why not? You are the British Government, right? Get me there."

"Sherlock, it's an active military zone. Even I can't allow a civilian into an active war zone. I can't do it."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both." At Sherlock's distressed and angry look, he sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Listen, I can do my best to get John home sooner than later, but I absolutely cannot allow you to go to a war zone. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded. "Just get him to me."

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Mycroft hung up the phone with a decisive click, rubbing his eyes as he did so. He sat back in his chair and sipped his drink. John was on his way home, as long as he stayed stable for the next forty-eight hours.

It wasn't great, and the broken vase on the floor was Sherlock's feelings on the matter, but he did the best he could.

John would be home within the next three days.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock jiggled his knee obsessively as the cab seemed to crawl on its way to the hospital. Mycroft had called twenty minutes ago, saying that John was back in the country, but the wound was still serious enough that he needed to be in hospital for a longer period. Sherlock had spent approximately eight minutes and forty-seven seconds yelling at his brother for not telling him sooner that John was in the country. He had hastily gotten dressed and put his hand out for the next available taxi. On the way there, time seemed to have slowed down as they hit every single red light and every jam on their way. Sherlock blew out annoying breaths through his nose, fingers itching with the thought that he should have just called Mycroft to get him a car. They would have been there by now, and then......and then? He would have to see John, heavily injured. He had seen him injured before, of course. Scrapes, bruising, once even a broken arm. But a gun shot wound? One that was more serious than anyone was willing to let on? Sherlock's stomach rolled, and fear sliced down his spine. He swallowed and pushed the fear away. John needed him the most right now, and he was going to do everything he needed to do.  
Finally, finally, the cab pulled up to the hospital. Sherlock shoved bills at the cabbie, not even bothering to count to see if it was correct. He ran through the doors, straight to the stairs.  
He had no patience for the elevator.  
Mycroft had already texted John's room number so Sherlock could just go straight there. When he reached the room, taking a moment to catch his breath, he hesitated as his fingers brushed the door handle. The thought of seeing John this wounded made his stomach flip, and Sherlock had to swallow and take a deep breath before he could open the door. He stepped inside, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust. His gaze rested on the form lying in the bed, hooked up to what seemed like a dozen machines. His breath caught as his eyes narrowed in on the bandages around John's torso. His arm was in a sling, face deathly pale underneath the mask that was assisting in delivering the oxygen to his lungs. His face, neck and hands were covered in bruises and scrapes. His frame looked too thin, and he definately had lost some muscle mass. He looked like a shell. A shell with his lovers' face.  
Sherlock's heart clenched as he sat in the chair next to him.  
"Oh, John. My John." He reached out and gently grabbed John's hand. "Oh, God, John...how can....someone....what.....?" John had once pointed out that when Sherlock started to stammer, it meant he was getting overwhelmed. John was always good at pulling him out of this state, but now, John was just lying there. Deep smudges under his eyes, looking so weak and frail. His strong John. Sherlock took a deep breath, and squeezed John's hand as tight as he dared. "John, my John. I know you can hear me. I need you to do something for me, please? You've always had a hard time denying me anything, especially if I add that word you always try to get me to use more often. I need you to come back to me, John, because I need you." He laid his head on the back of John's hand and closed his eyes. "I need you, John. I can't go back to how things were before you, and I don't want to even entertain the notion of a world without you inside it. No one-no one understands me like you do. No one is as suited to me as you are. I can't work, can't eat, can't sleep, I can't function without you. Please," he begged as a tear rolled down his cheek, "please don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me."  
The tears rolled unchecked down his cheeks as he sobbed against his love's hand. He babbled nonsense words until his voice cracked, and even then, he clutched John's hand like the lifeline it was.  
*~~~~~~~~~~*  
Sherlock wasn't sure what had woken him up, wasn't even sure when he had fallen asleep. The machines still beeped next to him, the sun wasn't up yet, the light was still dim, no one was in the room besides him and John, but something had. Sherlock sucked in a breath and shot his head up.  
John had squeezed his hand.  
He looked to John's face, noticing that his eyes were twitching, indicating coming out of a deep rest. Hope bloomed in his chest as he squeezed John's hand. A squeeze back. John's eyelids peeked open, just a little, but enough that he made eye contact. The scratchy, soft voice was like music to his ears.  
"Sher.....lock."  
*~~~~~~~~~~*  
When John received the okay from the doctor that he was allowed to return home, Sherlock wasted no time bundling him up and whisking him away back to Baker Street.  
Even though Sherlock knew that John was safe at home, Sherlock hovered over him insistently. He didn't let John out of his sight, terrified of leaving him on his own for more than a few minutes. He knew that he was being insufferable, that he was being very overprotective, but look at what had happened when they had been seperated. He watched at John constantly. As he ate, as he drank his tea, as he read the paper, but most often as he slept.  
When they slept, Sherlock curled around him, clutching him as tight as he was able. Sometimes he lay his head over John's heart, but mostly he lay his hand over it. Reminding himself that it was beating, that John was back here with him, alive and for the most part, well. John sometimes woke up, screaming and in a cold sweat. Sometimes he barked orders, sometimes he pleaded with someone to just make the pain go away, sometimes he called out for Sherlock. The barking orders he could handle, but when Sherlock heard John cry out for him, or for anyone to just make his pain stop, that was what broke Sherlock's heart, over and over again. He would stroke John's hair, murmur in his ear, sweet nothings and soothing words mostly. He would wrap his arms around his lanky frame, rock him as he waited for the trembeling to stop.  
*~~~~~~~~~~*  
John was at the edge of his rope. Sherlock had been acting strange....well, stranger than usual. He had been unusually patient and attentive. And while John had appreciated and had basked in it while he knew it was going to last, there was something missing. While he had been healing, there hadn't been any sexual contact of any kind. He had craved the feeling of sweaty skin against his own, of hearing the heavy panting and deep moaning in his ear as he thrust his cock in and out of Sherlock's tight heat. But he was mostly missing the intimacy. He had missed Sherlock so much during his time in the military, and he had been hoping that when he was healed enough that he and Sherlock could share some sexy time, but he was two weeks after he was given the okay for strenuous activity, and Sherlock hadn't made any sort of move on him at all. He was getting desperate. The wanks he had been given himself in his seldom private moments were unsatisfying at best. His balls were bluer than the ocean.  
Deciding to take things into his own hands, he waited until Sherlock was making him a rare cup of tea. Cornering him against the counter, he ran his hands up Sherlock's chest, tweaking his nipples through his shirt as he took his earlobe in his teeth Sherlock moaned, unconsciously leaning back into John. John licked the shell of Sherlock's ear, panting into it, as he unbuckled Sherlock's trousers and shoved his hand inside. He grasped Sherlock's cock, smirking as he felt it grow to better fit his hand. He licked Sherlock's ear, before nibbling on the lobe. Sherlock moaned, his eyes fluttering shut as the arousal slammed into his gut. He had wanted to reclaim the intimacy that had been lost during John's time in the military, but he had been afraid of moving too quickly.  
Apparently, John didn't share the same feelings on it.  
John stroked Sherlock's cock, adding the twist at the tip he knew would drive him crazy. Sherlock whimpered and started thrusting his hips in time with John's strokes. John continued to lick and suck at Sherlock's neck, reaching down to tug at Sherlock's balls. Sherlock groaned and wrapped his arms around John's neck. His hip thrusting became more erratic as he felt his balls and stomach tighten. And just when Sherlock was about to explode, John moved his hands out of reach, keeping him right on the edge. Sherlock groaned again, and reached down to finish the job himself, but John captured his hands and restrained him. Sherlock's hips thrust uselessly, looking for friction of any kind, but John moved far enough away to deny him.  
"John," Sherlock whined, "what are you doing? Why would you do something like this?"  
John licked his lips. "I wanted you to feel what I have felt these last two weeks. I've been starved for the feeling of your skin on mine. I want to feel alive, to feel my heart pounding in my chest because of pleasure and not fear. I've been absolutely dying to be inside of you. Can we have sex? I feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust if I don't fuck you soon. Please?"  
Freeing his arms, Sherlock pushed away from the sink and dragged John behind him, practically running to their bedroom.  
John pushed him down on the bed, licking into his mouth and tweaking his nipples. Sherlock was being reduced to a quivering, moaning mess on the sheets. John licked his way down Sherlocks' neck, his chest, dipping his tongue into his naval. Sherlock panted heavily, threading his fingers into John's hair, coaxing him downward. John grinned and went lower, swallowing Sherlock down in one go.  
Sherlock shouted and bucked his hips, earning a satisfied groan from John. John bobbed his head, running his tongue along the smooth, hot skin, tasting the salty flesh, listening to Sherlock fall apart above him. He pulled off of Sherlock with an audible pop and moved his hand up and down the shaft, and suddenly deciding to play dirty, started massaging his prostate from the outside. Sherlock was practically sobbing, frantically thrusting towards his finish.  
"Sherlock, don't you dare come. You aren't allowed to come until I am inside you and you ask my permission." He continued to stroke and massage, while Sherlock practically bit through his lip trying to comply.  
Pulling away, John rolled onto his back. He reached over the bedside table and grabbed the small bottle of lube. Slicking up his cock, he reached over to a heavily panting Sherlock and pulled him on top of him. "I want to see you ride me," he babbled as he rubbed lube over Sherlock's entrance, "I want you to bounce on my cock after you take every hard inch inside you." Sherlock pounced onto him and lined up John's cock with his opening. Sinking down, his back arched as John moaned, feeling the tight heat enclose his cock. It felt so good, so bloody amazing, but it also felt like he was home.  
Sherlock gave no time for adjusting before he started moving. Slowly at first, wanting to be gentle, but picking up speed after some encouraging hip thrusts from John.  
John's fingers dug into his hips, helping him bounce harder on his cock. Sherlock was making the most pornographic songs that he had ever heard and it served to heighten John's arousal. He felt the tightening in his stomach. "Touch yourself, Sherlock," he ordered, "I want to feel you squeeze my cock and I want to feel your come on me. Do it."  
Sherlock's hand squeezed around his own cock, pistoning himself between John's cock and his own fist. He felt the tingle starting in his balls, moving up to tighten in stomach, then explode outward as the orgasm swamped his body. He cried out, arching his back as he shot his come all over John's stomach. John cried out and followed soon after, coming deep inside Sherlock's convulsing arse. Sherlock collapsed onto John, coating them both in sweat and come.  
Neither one of them had ever felt so satisfied.  
But the intensity of their love making was leaving Sherlock feeling overwhelmed. Without a moment to try and stop them, the tears flowed out of his eyes and onto John's chest, sobs starting to shake his whole body.  
John, alarmed by the sudden change in mood, sat up, inspecting Sherlock for some sort of wound. "Sherlock? Did I hurt you? Shit, I'm sorry. I just wanted to feel you and-"  
"I almost lost you!" Sherlock sat up, wiped at his eyes and plunged on without giving John a moment. "You were late......and th-the telly........bombs....and no one knew anything......then Mycroft.........you were hurt! They said you almost died from your wounds! You almost left me!" He pulled John against his chest, sobbing into his uninjured shoulder.  
John, speechless, did nothing. Said nothing. He let Sherlock cry on his shoulder, feeling all of the pain and worry flow out of him. He knew Sherlock had been holding back, he knew that's why he curled around him so closely at night, why he was watched almost every minute of every day. Sherlock was afraid that something was going to happen to him. What could he say to that? He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, love, you know I would never leave you. Not willingly anyways." Sherlock grunted and buried his face in John's neck, taking deep shuddering breaths. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him as close as he was able without his shoulder twinging. "I mean it, Sherlock Holmes, you aren't getting rid of me that easily. I will never leave you. Never. I love you, you tosser. So much. Alright?"  
Sherlock pulled back a bit, and looked John square in the eyes. "Promise?"  
John smiled brightly. "Promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone for the wait. I got inspired for a new story and have been trying to get it all out.


End file.
